Assassin
by Polar Thestral
Summary: You can't say the words without understanding the meaning. Assassin. Terrorist. Love. Hate. It's all subjective. S2: Sarkney.


**Title: Assassin**  
**Ship:** Sydney Bristow/Julian Sark  
**Summary:** It's best to understand the meaning before saying the words. Terrorist. Assassin. Love. Hate. It's all subjective.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters of Alias do not belong to me nor am I making a profit from this fictional story. JJ and crew hold the rights  
**Authors Notes:** Heeee, when I was studying for my Law and Terror exam I came across an article that was filled with story inspiring (thought provoking) quotes. As I was packing up my stuff today I came across this article by Rapoport again and thought, why the hell not? 

**Assassin**

_"Less obvious but much more interesting, perhaps, . . . is the transformation that the meaning of the term assassin underwent in medieval Europe, where initially it signified devotion and later meant one who killed by treachery."_  
– David Rapoport, 'Fear and Trembling'

* * *

This is how the story goes and it's as old as recorded thought. It could have been a misogynistic thought, a reflection of the social controls inflicted by a patriarchy. It could have been truth put into words. They knew it was naïve to place their trust in those ancient words about Eve and Pandora and Aphrodite and Delilah and every other pernicious woman that needed to be leashed by man. They both knew that. Words were written down for a reason, words had power and there was always intention behind any power that was wielded. But people follow tradition and custom mindlessly. The words were engrained and he supposed he should have known that this instilled cliché was bound to surface between them at one point. People as well trained as they, were bound to fall into the routine of history. Sex is linked to betrayal; female flesh was the damnation of man. Once the sweat had dried it was only a matter of deciphering who'll pull the trigger and who'll take the bullet.

* * *

His first kill was personal. Irina informed him (with that condescending smile) that they usually were. It was the kill he remembered in the blur of years and blood. It was the kill he most enjoyed and the kill that still haunted him. 

He'd fallen into the trap of a cunt (as he was wont to do thereafter). Slick and wet and warm; a truly thoughtless depravity that his thought-cluttered mind was exhilarated to discover. A haven of ignorance was bliss when he was never ignorant elsewhere. It was a weakness; absolutely. But everyone has to learn lessons; hypotheticals can never teach anything. 

He didn't remember much about her. Her: the victim if that's what he had to remember her as. She'd smelled nice, she'd been warm and then she wasn't. He'd been told to watch her and get information. _Get close to her._

Irina's voice in his ear, her hand on his collar, fingers sneaking under to swipe at his skin. He didn't know it then but she'd been manipulating him the same way that they all would. _Get close to her; tell me everything she knows . . . _

Get close to her. 

He'd been close. Close enough and too far. Inside of her within three hours. He'd timed himself with the misguided arrogance of youth. 

He'd woken up two hours later not remembering if he'd come or not (and not caring if she had). His hands were bound and she was grinning at him from a chair not far away (out of reach). 

"I'm not really into bondage." The crisp even tones disguised his raging heart. But he'd never showed fear; his loyalty was flexible and it was bending in her direction. 

"I expected Irina Derevko to send someone with a bit more experience. I'm insulted." 

"What do you want to know?" 

She tilted her head, blonde hair wisping across her face. 

"Know? I don't need to know anything. I know who sent you. Everything else is inconsequential; you're not important enough to remember." 

He'd felt the muscles in his face hardening. There was something inside of him that simply despised being underestimated (even though she had a point when he was helplessly tied to her bed). Words spilled from his lips; he told her everything. It would seem like a pathetic gesture, the last pleading gesture of a desperate man. Her grin widened exponentially when he told her he had no fixed loyalty to Irina. His loyalties were in the hands of whoever needed his services enough to allow him to live. He knew where Irina was and if it was his captor's will he'd kill Irina for her. 

"You're nothing but a pup, Irina would gut you as soon as you walked through the door." And she laughed. His eyes didn't narrow though his mind imagined the pleasure of her head thrown back, brain on the wall behind. He smiled coldly. 

"Then you have lost nothing." 

Perhaps it was his greatest strength: brilliant women thought he was incompetent – without devotion or loyalty – they assumed they could destroy him with feminine scents and alluring eyes. If there was one thing he detested more than their assumption it was the truth of that weakness. His hatred of this susceptibility was perhaps what sealed her fate. Then again he'd always hated being bested by someone he'd underestimated himself. 

Ten minutes after he was untied she'd given in to the temptation to kiss her new toy (he was harmless and bested after all). Twelve minutes later her gun holster was unbuttoned as she unzipped his pants. Fifteen minutes later he got to see her brain on the wall. 

He found Irina by the pool as he left the bitch's hotel room. Sitting beside her he said nothing. His mouth tasted like vomit but he was composed. She sipped her vodka straight and grinned with relish, tongue playing with a helpless straw. 

"You learned your lesson." 

Beneath his shades his gaze narrowed on a boy flailing in the deep end of the pool. 

"I'm obliged to your kind guidance. As always." 

"Did you enjoy yourself?" 

He wiped a speckle of blood from the cuff of his suit. 

"It was tolerable."

* * *

Three things he'd learned in this business could make any man pull the trigger: Sex, Money and God. If they did it for sex they were murderers. If they did it for money they were mercenaries. If they did it for God they were terrorists. Power, politics and pleasure were related to any of these concepts; he didn't want to complicate the issue. People killed for the three passions: Sex, Money, and God. 

Men were weak and ready for exploitation and Mr. Sark – as he now called himself – enjoyed exploiting people. Sark found it terribly embarrassing that these three things were weaknesses more apparent in men than women. Men were more naturally ambitious, lustful and held a higher place in most religious faiths. He often tried to remove himself from his own sex but in truth he was just as susceptible to original sin as the next man. Woman's sin was to tempt and man's was to accept the temptation without thought of questioning her. 

Sark knew he wanted power but what drove his will to kill? Ambition? Pleasure? It certainly wasn't God. But he did enjoy the money. He liked to believe he was born with a gun in his cradle. 

Perhaps, knowing his own weakness it would have been better to remove himself from the employment of Irina Derevko but he'd never been able to resist her. As flexible as his loyalties were, the fact that he found her mesmerising made him devoted to her in some strange, masochistic fashion. And he knew the moment he met her daughter that his weakness grew more potent with each generation in the Bristow family. 

He remembered the first time he'd seen her up close: her three-dimensional features shattering all photographs that had unreliably made her seem a plain creature. Exquisite. Intriguing. Both descriptors applied. She'd sung a song off-key but strutted off the stage with all the confidence of a diva. He admired her bravado even if it was unwarranted, perhaps more so. She'd touched his neck in a way far too familiar to him; Irina's condescending eyes flashed at him from her daughter's face and he stiffened. 

Fingers tracing down his chin . . . toying with him. 

_"She has an excellent singing voice . . ."_ he had taunted her father (just to let him know he wasn't ignorant of her identity, just to scare the man.) 

"You shouldn't underestimate, Jack. He wouldn't hesitate to kill you if he thought you were a threat to Sydney." Irina told him coolly when he related the story. 

"I'm not scared of him." He'd smiled at her as if they shared some private joke, "You must think he was rather pathetic for believing you loved him all those years? _I_ do." He found it difficult to believe she could love anything. 

Her eyes narrowed into a dangerous glare that brought an apology quickly and willingly to his lips. 

"Don't insult Jack Bristow until you've proven you're better than him." 

"I _am_ better." 

She raised her eyebrow with the sort of quirk to her lips that made him want to drive a knife straight into her heart. Just like she'd taught him. Instant, silent death. 

"No. You're not." Her eyes captured his; he felt helpless, held stationary by a predator far stronger than him. His eyes stared back as impassively as they could while hers gleamed with triumph. They said nothing but she communicated all she knew and the weight of that knowledge pressed against his chest. 

He felt the brush of ghost fingertips across his neck and looked away. She laughed softly. 

"How was she?" 

He glared at her, stood up and buttoned his coat. 

"I haven't had her yet." The quip was too insolent considering his fragile position in her employment; the implied insult was crude and perhaps beneath him but he felt extremely satisfied when her eyes flashed murder up at him. 

"It would be extremely foolish of you to turn adolescent on me, Mr. Sark." 

With a curt nod of his head he strolled from her office toward his own room (at least, for the night). 

Perhaps what he'd felt when Sydney Bristow touched him had not been true attraction at all. Perhaps he'd known that the best way to 'fuck you' the woman with the most power over him was to fuck her daughter. Sex, money, God. Power was the ultimate motivation for his trigger finger, oh yes. But it was grounded by one of the three.

* * *

Strange that challenging Irina's control made her respect him. She told him things – plans; she included him. He felt honoured, important: it went straight to his head. She told him she would walk in. She told him he would capture a man named Mr. Sloane (he was very familiar with that name of course but played along as if it was just another dead body, like he wasn't important enough to remember). She told him that he would _not_ kill Sloane, he would bring him in (much to Mr. Sark's eyebrow raising disbelief). She said the name Sydney many times and Mr. Sark's cold heart did not tremble with excitement nor anticipation. She said 'Sydney Bristow' and he nodded with cool disinterest. She said 'Sydney Bristow is a double agent' and Mr. Sark smiled slowly at his employer.

* * *

He saw her surprise when Arvin Sloane walked out of the office and beckoned her close. She was meant to be a spy but her face was poorly trained. The guilt and shock was all there and he had been disappointed in her. She had walked through the door and shock had turned to dismay when she saw him. But surely she must have known, surely she didn't think he'd lost Sloane, surely she already knew she'd been played . . . her eyes narrowed. _There_. Slow but she eventually got there. 

Mr. Sark smiled at her innocently; he tilted his head in his best imitation of a puppy and clasped his hands together. Helpless, guileless, innocent killer. Gets the ladies every time. He remembered blood splattered blonde hair and blood on a wall. There was no smile on his face as he steadily met her wide-eyed gaze. 

As Mr. Sloane talked they only stared at each other. She glared the whole time but it didn't even draw a speck of blood from him. He'd lived with her mother too long, oh if only she knew – would she even try to intimidate him with her pathetic eye narrowing (he couldn't even call it a glare at this point)? 

"Agent Bristow, working with you was—" 

Her frantic eyes had amused him, aroused him with their pleading. A slow smirk spread across his face. 

"Don't worry," _it truly was delicious_, "I've pulsed the bugs," _her fear of him_, "we can reminisce," _he'd never felt it before_. She'd always smirked at him like he was a cute little boy, like all the others. Underestimated him. Now he had information that could destroy her if he uttered a syllable, he tasted the knowledge with relish and smiled at her – all the gore of her weakness between his teeth. 

He teased her with more knowledge that she didn't have and promptly quipped "that's need to know" when desperation glinted in her eyes. 

"Shall we get started? I'm very familiar with Irina Derevko's operation so this might take a while. I hope you don't have a previous engagement." 

She'd frowned. That's right, he thought, I'm completely open – my alliances have shifted. I'll tell you anything . . . _that I want to tell._

* * *

In France is where it happened. 

He enjoyed too much the pleasure of being the cat rather than the mouse where a Bristow woman was involved. 

"You're surprisingly adept at keeping your curiosity in check." No, he wasn't in the game or perhaps he was too confident that he'd win the game. Both of them. He kept sneaking glances at the hard hat on the bridge, wondering whether anything he said was ruffling her. It was so easy to ruffle her; curious considering her mother hardly ever responded to his jabs. 

"Don't flatter yourself." 

He grinned with appreciation, interested that her mind would go to that conclusion rather than the obvious: "I'm referring to the fact that your mother and I worked together before I arrived here." He paused intentionally. "Before she went into _hiding_." A look up to the bridge: she'd paused typing. He smirked. How Sydney Bristow ever managed to fool her enemies was any guess, she had too many tells. Obviously mother and daughter had been reunited at the C.I.A. The plan was going well. 

"I learned a lot from her," he continued, thoroughly enjoying himself now, "in some ways I think of her as a mother myself." What a strange family it would be, to have his mother treat him as she did – to have him think of his 'sister' as he did. 

"Listen," he could hear her impatience (and her determination to divert him), "You and I have nothing in common. We're not friends, we're not going to become friends and you certainly won't bait me with stories about a woman I never knew." 

And she didn't know _him_. If she did she would never have challenged him like that. 

There were so many things more interesting to be than a friend. Sark smiled, oh his head was in the game now. The mission had gone smoothly, he'd let her be the physical athlete, chasing after their quarry and kicking him to a stand still in true heroine fashion. His powers were more tactical. He'd already reoccupied their escape vehicle and made sure a contact in France was tailing them by the time she'd intercepted the package. 

"Get in the car." 

This is how it started. He knew her weaknesses and her strengths. She had plenty of tells. He knew their travel arrangements might change if she perceived a likely threat to their safety. He kept checking his rear view mirror, but said nothing. He drove faster, turned corners he didn't need to turn and checked the rearview mirror again. 

Finally he recognised the red jeep, four cars back. It took them long enough. His fingers tightened on the wheel and he jerked into the next lane making sure they spotted his car. 

"I don't see the tail." She snarled, "although we might end up getting one if you continue to drive like a guilty party." 

"We're in a police vehicle; the public will assume I am on a mission to preserve justice in the dangerous streets of Paris." He could feel her ire from the passenger seat and smirked with fond amusement. 

He'd turned his face without taking his eyes off the road, just enough so she could see the quirk of his lips. That condescending quirk that he knew would make her want to stab him in the heart. Irina had taught it to him well. His bright blue eyes flicked to the mirror again, then back to the road. 

She didn't say a thing, instead she turned, locked her hands over her chest and glared mulishly at the rearview mirror. He didn't have to direct her gaze there any more, in her desperation to prove him paranoid she'd fall right into his— 

"Wait." She gripped his arm. 

—trap. 

"Red jeep." 

"I did deduce that two intersections ago." 

"Well excuse me I was distracted by a prick with his head up his ass." 

"Oh, why didn't you point him out?" He flicked her a scandalised look. "I always enjoy an exhibition of daring flexibility." 

She pulled a strange face and it took him a moment to realise she was attempting not to laugh. He jerked the car quickly into the next lane and she gripped the glove box beside her with a gasp. 

"I'll keep that in mind Mr. Sark." She looked out of the window as soon as the words left her mouth, turned in her seat and pretended to be searching out his tail. He really hoped Raoul could keep up with them because he planned on keeping Sydney trapped in this car for as long as it took. 

"Are you flirting with me Agent Bristow?" He asked. 

She blushed at the forward question, obviously she was hoping he'd be polite and ignore her insinuation. Not likely. 

"Of course not." 

"That's wise of you. Because when you flirt with danger you always run the risk of attracting it closer to you." He grabbed the gear stick and jerked it into reverse, pulling into a multi-level parking lot with fluid ease. When he flicked her a glance her eyes were fixated on his hand, he moved it deliberately back to the steering wheel, drawing her gaze toward his faze. She met his eyes steadily. 

"I think I'm as close as I'll ever want to be." She said coolly. 

His smile said she was a liar and her flush seemed to acknowledge the truth in that. 

"You realise that by driving in here you have us cornered by an unknown assailant don't you? That's just so typical of you!" She lashed out but wouldn't look at him, her eyes were fixated on the rearview mirror searching for Raoul's jeep as if he was her salvation. Sark kept his gaze forward and tried not to smile. 

"There's nothing wrong with being cornered. Or are you afraid to test your mettle? To see if you're really worth the elaborate praise that Arvin Sloane provides in abundance." 

"I'm not going to rise to your bait, _Sark_." 

He liked how she said his faux name. Like an insult. For a moment he wondered what his real name would sound like on her tongue but the thought was shuttered. He didn't want to know. 

"Pull over here," she indicated a corner on the fifth level and he followed her directions without complaint (there was no threat after all). The jeep appeared from the ramp and Sark ducked his head, eyeing Raoul as he cleverly manoeuvred the car into another lane far away from their current position. It would take their assailant a little while to find them. 

"We should lure him out and question him." She said. "Find out who he works for." 

"I disagree. There is no direction in our operation for that sort of vigilante action. We were told to procure the hard drive and return to SD-6. I say we avoid our friend here and continue with the operation as directed." 

"Well not all of us are useless puppies without a mind of their own. That's why Sloane will always value me above you. I can think on my feet and realise that sometimes it takes a little more than evasive action to do what's right. I have a moral code, I do this for justice and to protect my country you do it for profit and pleasure. Beyond that I'm loyal and you're," she laughed scornfully, "_loyalties are flexible_." She cooed mockingly with a flutter of her eyelashes. "No wonder you made that crack about enjoying a good show of flexibility, that's all you know how to do. Bend and bow and scrape." 

She thought she had him; the glimmer in her eyes was triumph. 

"You're loyal." He said. She nodded her head arrogantly and he knew he had her. "To _Arvin Sloane_?" He added with the raise of an eyebrow. Her face stilled and shuttered. Her blank face gave her emotions away just as much as true emotiveness did. "How _noble_ of you. If it means anything I'm doing my best to show that same amount of _devotion_ right at this moment." He smiled innocently knowing that she was trying to understand if that double entendre meant he knew about her double agent status (and that he was doing the same thing). He'd never been so happy to have a cherub-innocent face. His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror and he said more coolly. "Perhaps we should move this stimulating conversation to a more convenient location. This vehicle isn't safe, I propose we apprehend another and make our way to the extraction point together." 

She nodded mutely. He'd won that round. Slowly and as stealthily as possible she slipped the door open. Keeping her head below roof level she slid out and waited for him to do the same. Quite intentionally he slammed the door. She glared at him through the window for a second before the bullets started firing. 

"I apologize." He mumbled contritely as he moved for the sig. on his waist. Sydney rolled across the bonnet and gripped his shoulder. 

"Never mind that just move, we can't be recognised together." 

He almost wanted to tell her that he was doing this for the mere enjoyment of her company. But she was a bitch so he kept up with the game. 

He sprinted after her, firing bullets over his shoulder in no particular direction. He heard the screech of tires as he caught up with a sprinting Sydney about to access the parking lot stairs. He gripped her arm and tugged her unceremoniously through the door. 

"Let's split up." She said eagerly and pushed him down the stairs while she took the flight up. He couldn't exactly argue with her, but his eyes narrowed. He walked down the stairs a few steps and then waited by the door. Raoul came charging in a few moments later. 

"Mr. Sark." He looked confused. "Did you mean for me to catch you?" 

"Agent Bristow has made her way to the roof perhaps you'd like to join her there? Engage her, hurt her as much as you deem necessary but don't kill her. Understand?" 

"Yes, Sir." He darted up the stairs, not paying much attention to the gun Sark still held in his hands. 

Sark thought for a moment. He had no doubt that Agent Bristow would eventually overpower that man. He wasn't exactly proficient in arm-to-arm conflict. After waiting a few minutes he turned and made his way up the stairs, following the scent of blood he imagined on the air. Raoul's blood. 

When he emerged on the roof he found something rather startling. Agent Bristow had apparently been taken by surprise by a second weapon. Sark spotted Raoul's sig. by the door he'd entered. Obviously Sydney had attacked as soon as the door was opened and knocked it out of his hand. She now lay on the floor, gazing up at her attacker with a stubborn glare as if she was merely laying there to coax him into a false sense of security. Sark could see she was bleeding though, Raoul'd shot her in the thigh and she was bleeding quite heavily. 

Sark raised his gun steadily and aimed. 

"Where is it?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sydney snarled. 

"Would you like a hole in the other leg to clarify your thoughts?" 

"I don't think that will be necessary." Mr. Sark said coolly. The man stiffened, raised his gun and turned a little in Sark's direction— 

Sark pulled the trigger dispassionately and watched him slump to the ground. Sydney sat there, very still. She was staring at him with wide . . . fearful . . . eyes. His eyes quickly scanned the roof for any other threats (though he knew there were none). He approached her quickly, tucking his gun into the back of his pants. 

"Did he hit your artery?" 

"I don't think so." 

"You need medical attention. I have a contact who could—" 

"No. We get to the extraction point." 

They exchanged glares. He hadn't counted on her will being as beastly as her mothers. 

"Very well. I suppose you're going to tell me you can walk perfectly fine as well." 

"Sorry if you were planning on carrying me like a damsel in distress." The vitriol in her tone annoyed him. She attempted to force herself to a standing position but kept slumping weakly when pain shot down her leg. The determination on her face would have been alluring if it wasn't so annoying. 

"I won't carry you like a damsel in distress but don't try to stop me from carrying you because I think I could best you in a tussle at the moment." He smirked slightly, bent down in front of her. He placed his arms out around her waist but didn't touch her yet. Their faces were in close proximity as he leaned into her, eyes asking for approval though he'd pick her up even if she narrowed that gaze and rebuffed him. Her face had a curious flush to it that he examined as her breath puffed across his cheeks. Tentatively she nodded her acquiescence. Without pause or comment he let his arms clasp her around the waist then scooped her up against his chest. For a moment her hands rested limply on her knees but then she moved them stiffly to his neck and held on. He readjusted her for balance (not groping) purposes and moved toward the stairs. 

Irina would likely be annoyed he'd killed one of her contacts but he really didn't care. Sydney Bristow was holding on to his neck and he could feel her hot breath against his jaw.

* * *

He checked in on her at the hospital though he knew she didn't know it. He'd come in as a Nurse much to his disgust. He's passed her window with a trolley and seen that man. The man she was willing to kill Arvin Sloane for. Michael Vaughn his informants had told him. Mr. Sark observed their interactions with interest, watched with each pass of the window as Vaughn's hand crept closer to hers until their fingers barely touched. It was appalling really that this was what Sydney wanted. He never would have believed that so tentative a courtship could have sparked her interest. Especially when the man was so obviously taken by someone else. 

There was nothing soft about a man whose interest strayed, nothing remotely romantic about a cheater. 

He'd make her see that before he cheated her himself.

* * *

He made a note to talk to her everyday, innocuous water cooler stuff about the weather and how her leg was faring and whether or not she believed American Imperialism was anything like the British version. She always managed to escape before he entrapped her in a conversation. He was curious about her need to be away from him and found her obvious aversion strangely enticing. 

When an informant told him Vaughn had committed to Alice again after being with Sydney, Mr. Sark finally asked how Sydney was feeling. 

"Are you quite well, Agent Bristow?" He handed her a coffee, leaning against her desk. 

She didn't pause in her typing or look up at him. 

"Did I give you the mistaken impression that I want you sitting on my inbox?" She asked. 

"Perhaps." He smiled slightly until she looked up, her impatience hardening into a glower. "You look upset. I'd hate to see that interfering with your work." 

Sydney picked up an envelope opener and fiddled with it, a threatening grin on her face. Call him seduced but he couldn't move his eyes from her fingers. 

"What work? Paper pushing isn't exactly a strenuous job." She looked at him for a long pause. "Well?" 

He raised an eyebrow. 

"What do you want?" 

He sipped his coffee, observing her with mercurial eyes over the rim of his cup. She shifted slightly under his gaze. 

"_What_?" She snapped, impatient and unnerved. 

His job done, Sark inclined his head. "You're not ready to know." With that strange statement now floating in the air, Sark wandered over to his desk and took great pleasure in the distracted air she radiated for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Stay away from Sydney Bristow." 

Sark turned from the video surveillance of SD-6 to observe Sloane's relaxed expression. Here was a man with the best poker face Sark had ever seen. 

"I haven't been interfering with your plans for Ms. Bristow." 

"Yes, well." Sloane smirked adjusting himself in his chair to a more relaxed position. "She's an important player in our quest." 

Sark tilted his head. Quest, as if Rambaldi was a religion. He turned his head back to the surveillance. 

"She doesn't trust me." 

"I don't trust you." Sloane said as if it was perfectly natural that even the most gullible man in the world wouldn't trust Sark. 

"I've been monitoring her to make sure she is not investigating the true purpose of our alliance." 

"I've told you before that there is no point in that. Sydney trusts me; she'll believe what I tell her to believe. She has no reason to doubt me." 

Only that you killed her fiancé and convinced her that she was working for the Government even though she was furthering the aims of a terrorist network. Absolutely no reason. 

"Of course," was all Sark said. "I don't trust her either." He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, Irina would lynch him if he made Sloane doubt Sydney's allegiance. 

Sloane's face said he didn't care what Sark felt about Sydney Bristow one was or the other. 

"Stay away from her." Subject closed. Sark returned his gaze to the monitor, watching as Sydney tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He smiled slowly. 

Two challenges. Three if you counted Sydney herself. 

She was basically his property now. 

He could never resist a challenge.

* * *

Phase one of their plan moved along nicely, phase one was more difficult for Sark's personal dalliance. He wasn't sure what drove him. He didn't want to study his reasons. He knew revenge had a lot to do with it but he wasn't sure who he was avenging himself against. Perhaps it was just a nameless clump of people who had doubted him too much for too long. 

He started training with her. First guns: sneaking down to the gun alley to take the booth next to her. They fired wordlessly, smoke and tiny explosions sounding like urgent messages to – _touch, kill, urgent, now, take_ – her. She said nothing though he noticed that when he pulled his target back to his booth her eyes were not fixed on her own. The outlined face came toward him and he nodded smugly. He'd given the man a zipper that cut down his torso from between his eyes to his naval. A perfectly straight line. As he exited the booth he said nothing and she said nothing but the firing stopped. She paused and breathed deeply as he passed and he noticed that her hands were shaking on her gun. 

He smiled slowly and kept walking. It was always a pleasure to impress an adversary.

* * *

Dixon got injured, it worked out well. Sark was even more pleased that there was no way to implicate him in the man's broken arm. Since he was the only member without a partner Sloane reluctantly gave him an impermanent partnership with Agent Bristow 'pending the return of Agent Dixon'. 

They trained together, arm-to-arm, palm-to-palm, hip-to-hip. Every time they moved into attack positions he wanted to smile and her face heated with dislike – they remembered these positions well of course. Too many times they'd run into each other in the field, they fought each other like they were still enemies, like it was life or death instead of a routine drill. It excited him and he knew she was aware of it. She said nothing. 

"It was you, wasn't it?" Breathing heavily one day, latejah long since swiped from his fingers. 

"I don't know what you mean." 

"In Denpassar." 

"I've never been to Bali." 

She said nothing more but he knew. He'd felt the same excitement that day. Like he was finally a cat that had found a mouse worthy enough to catch by the tail and release it again. Just so he could have the pleasure of the chase with a worthy adversary. 

"Why did you come here, Sark?" She wouldn't look at him, too ashamed that she was showing an interest. 

He breathed heavily, wiping sweat from his brow. They were both still on the mattresses from where they'd kicked each other down. 

"I have a temporary strategic alliance with Sloane." His voice was mechanical and he knew it. She turned her head to look at his face. 

A lovely, damp flush heated her cheeks and pressed her hair to her forehead. She looked good enough to lick. It was strangely intimate with their heads so close and their bodies laid out in two different directions. Close enough and too far. 

"You have an ulterior motive." 

"Everyone in this business does." 

"What is it?" 

"What's yours?" He parried. She closed her mouth firmly. "Don't stop now, I enjoy meeting you thrust for thrust." 

She held his gaze, determined not to bow to him in this joust. 

"You're trying to distract me with your inane excuse for flirtation." 

"Unlike you Agent Bristow I quite enjoy flirting with danger." 

"I get enough danger at work I don't need it in my personal life." She spat at him. 

"Oh, am I in your personal life? I'm flattered." 

She laughed coldly and flung herself into a sitting position, giving up once again on cracking him. "That'll be the day." She hissed. Before she could rise to her feet he wrapped his hand firmly around her elbow and pulled her fiercely back and against his chest. She turned swinging her other hand to slap him. He caught it easily and they were held together in some fierce parody of an embrace. Their eyes spat fire at each other. 

"That _will_ be the day." He whispered intently eyes intentionally lowering from her burning brown irises to her lips. She jerked away from him into a backward roll. When she regained her feet she was crouching and he was still kneeling gazing at her calmly. She stood without a word and walked out of the room.

* * *

It was inevitable really. That was one way to look at it. Once he'd introduced the thought of sex in her head it was all about who conquered whom. He wasn't sure if this was desire but lust was certainly involved. What they were lusting for he didn't know. 

She was angry and he could work with that. Unlike her mother, Sydney was not governed by a meticulous mind. She was ruled by her emotions; she acted out violently and felt things deeply. She took out her frustrations on whoever was around her if she was unable to throw herself into work. 

Attempting to blend into the London crowd after one of their missions, Sark had engaged her in conversation. A particularly targeted conversation. He'd never tried it before. 

"Who was he?" He already knew of course. 

"Who?" 

"The man you were willing to kill Sloane for." 

She glared at him, her hand shooting up to her ear. 

"We're on radio silent. Plus I pulsed any bugs that may have accompanied us uninvited from SD-6. Tell me; I'm interested." 

"That's more reason not to tell you." 

"It wasn't one of our SD-6 colleagues." He said slyly and she stiffened. "There's no record of an infection in the team or of any of our men being in an area where they could have been contaminated." 

"We should head back to the hotel. We weren't followed." 

When she went to move away he gripped her arm. 

"Don't make a scene. We need to be inconspicuous." 

"Then don't struggle. Smile at me like a good, American tourist and play nice." 

She grinned at him viciously. He tugged her forward in retribution and closed his arms around her. 

"You should tell me. Or I'll find out on my own and you won't like the consequences. I can't implicate myself in your involvement in the attempt on Sloane's life – but I can implicate you if you are betraying SD-6. Your tenure at the agency won't endure long if Sloane discovers you've been having relations with an agent of another agency." 

"You don't frighten me, Sark. Sloane doesn't trust a word you say! Whatever you offered him to dupe him into this farce of a partnership wasn't enough to erase what he knows about you." She hissed moving closer to his face so that the crowd rushing past them couldn't hear her. 

"You are irritating me and you're starting to bore me." He tilted his head, cold eyes flicking over her anger-flushed features. 

"Yeah? And I don't give a fuck." 

His hands gripped her face viciously and her hands shot up to his throat as if to strangle him. A laughing group of private school children walked past, reminding her they were in a crowd. His grip turned caressing on her face and her eyes narrowed. 

"I wish you would." He said silkily. 

"Don't be disgusting." She pushed against his shoulders and he tightened his hold, keeping her steady and pressed close to him. 

"I don't disgust you." 

"Well I obviously hit you a bit too hard during the last round; you've clearly got brain damage. Don't worry Sark," she tapped his cheek condescendingly, "I'll go easy on you next time now that I know how soft you are." 

"Don't go easy," he shook her lightly, playfully and she grunted in aggravation, "give me everything you've got." 

"Sark—" she dug her nails into his shoulders not noticing how his breathing was speeding up, "—one more innuendo and I swear I'll—" 

"You'll what?" He snapped challengingly. 

"I'll tell Sloane my gun accidentally went off, the safety is faulty on this one anyway. I'm sure he won't consider you irreplaceable." 

He grinned at her, widely and appreciatively. She felt his hand move from her waist to the back of her pants. She stiffened, feeling his finger play along the metal handle of her concealed weapon. Her elbow was poised, ready to go down into his solar plexus if necessary. He gripped one of her hands at his shoulders and brought it faux-affectionately down his chest to over his heart. She felt the cool metal of her own gun tucked into her hand. 

"Do it. I dare you." Cameras flashes around them, tourists snapping photos of Liverpool station. 

Her finger was on the trigger but she wasn't tempted to squeeze. He pulled her closer to him concealing the gun beneath the open lapels of his jacket. 

"You know I won't." 

"No. I don't. Whatever illusion you have about yourself, I harbour none. You're a killer Sydney, just like me." 

She pushed the gun hard into his ribs but didn't squeeze the trigger; her mouth opened to voice the killing retort but he arched his head forward and met those lips halfway. She stiffened instantly with rejection and his hands went around her, crushing her body to his chest. With one ineffectual hand she tried to discretely dislodge him, the other was trapped between their bodies. His lips pressed firmly to hers, tongue swiping slowly out to press against the crease between her lips. His hands slid firmly up and down her back pressing her uncomfortably into her gun and fingers and his chest. Her nails curled into the soft skin on his waist and he moaned into her mouth biting softly down on her lower lip. She gasped and jerked backwards but he followed her, hand sliding up to grip the back of her neck to hold her in place. With her mouth open he swiped his tongue between her lips quickly for a teasing taste of her own. Her teeth closed down but not quick enough to trap him. Her nails fisted deep into the side of his waist and the tender unprotected flesh beneath his jacket. He chuckled against her mouth and pulled back far enough to breathe heated puffs against her saliva-stained lips and gaze into her incensed eyes. 

"Tell me you didn't enjoy that." 

She brought her knee up— 

"Uh-uh!" 

—he jerked backwards and she missed his groin.

* * *

"Francie," her voice was muffled but he could hear her fairly well. 

"Mmm-hmmm?" 

"Have . . . have you ever been kissed by someone you didn't have the slightest interest in, like, emotionally?" 

"Sure, but he didn't walk very well afterwards." 

Pause. 

"Are you gonna elaborate?" 

"It's complicated." 

Sark rolled his eyes, it wasn't _that_ complicated. 

"Well I like this guy at work—" 

"Michael." 

"Right." Pause. "Michael. But nothing's going to happen with that, he's with Alice and I . . . " Sigh. "I can't be with someone who's with someone else." 

"Of course. So where does this guy with no emotional interest for you come into it?" The teasing tone of her voice sparked Sark's interest. He wished he could see if Sydney was blushing. 

"We've sort of hated each other since the first day we saw each other." 

"Oh. Well that's . . . different." 

"He used to work for . . . a competitor. And I'd run into him occasionally . . . at business gatherings." 

Sark smothered a laugh as he listened to her hedging. She confided so much in this Francie character, he wondered if she realised how unwise that was if the wrong people found out. Like him for instance. 

"But recently he transferred to my bank and . . . there was tension." 

"Good tension or bad tension?" 

"_Tension._" 

Sark raised an eyebrow at the worried tone in her voice. 

"What does _that_ mean?" 

Good question, he liked this Francie. 

"He sets me on edge." 

"He sounds _hot_." 

"Francie!" 

"Is he hot?" 

"Franice, I'm not answering—" 

"_He is_! Oh my God, Syd you should see your face! Hey tomato-lady why didn't you tell me about this hot boy sooner? Have you got a photo?" 

Mug shots maybe, Sark thought with a smirk. 

"No!" Sydney said shrilly. 

"You do!" 

Sark sat forward with interest. 

"Francie, come on . . . " 

"Oh please you have to show me this guy and let me live vicariously through you. I have no prospective love interest." 

"He is _not_ a love interest." She didn't have to sound so indignant about it. 

"What about a quick-tumble interest?" 

"Francie—" she was laughing. Sark's lips quirked in response. 

"Or a fuck-me-hard-fast-now interest?" 

"An _annoying_ interest." 

"Annoying?" Pause. "What does that mean?" 

"It means that he frustrates the hell out of me and don't start on what I mean by frustrate. He knows exactly what to say to make me want to punch him unconscious and then the other day out of nowhere, we're walking down the street together and he just kisses me for no reason." 

Well, there was a reason but if she wanted to imagine it was blind passion that was fine with him. 

There was a long static-filled silence. 

"Wait. I don't understand why this is bothering you. Did you tell him you weren't interested?" 

"I tried to tell his balls but he dodged out of the way." 

Francie laughed appreciatively. So he didn't like her that much. Still laughing she asked, "Did you like it?" 

"No!" She said quickly. 

"Syd?" 

"Well . . . no . . . no, definitely not." 

"Okay. Are you sure because –" 

"I couldn't have liked it, it would be irrational and ridiculous and—" 

"Truthful?" 

Sigh. 

"You don't understand I don't just dislike him, I hate him. I have so many reasons to hate him—" 

"How come you've never mentioned him before?" 

"I've always been able to ignore him. But now . . .I'm just so frustrated. With Michael . . . I want to be with him so much but it's just not going to happen. And now the last guy on the Earth I'd ever think about wanting is kissing me and I don't know what to do. Part of me wants to say 'fuck it, why not?' it would mean nothing and I could get Michael out of my system but . . . I just know that it would be a mistake. I'd regret it forever." 

Not forever, Sark thought, only as long as she lived. A tiny blip in forever really.

* * *

It took him two weeks and several different strategies to shake off security division for him to get her there. He'd followed her home, knocked on the door and Francie had answered. Sydney had been in the shower tantalising him with illusions of water on naked skin. Francie was charmed by his lovely British accent and asked him to sit down while she made them a coffee, Sydney would be out soon. 

"How do you know Sydney? I don't think we've met before." 

She looked so friendly, he smiled with all the ease he could fake. 

"I know her from work." And she could make her own assumptions even if the sly smile was a nudge in the right direction. Her eyes scanned him – up and down – she nodded slowly, a flush spreading up her cheeks. Did she approve? Of course she did, he knew what he saw when he looked in the mirror. 

"Francie, do you mind if I go to—_what the hell_—" She caught herself at Francie's surprised look and paused in her furious tramp toward him. "Sark." She nodded at him and he tilted his head in amusement as Francie placed a coffee mug in front of him. He looked down at the affectionate cows drawn in various lewd positions around the cup and frowned. 

Sydney flushed. "Uh . . . " she moved forward as if to snatch the cup from his grasp but Francie laughed. 

"Syd. gave me that as a gag birthday present. Don't be fooled by her innocent exterior she has quite a naughty side." Francie waved a tea towel in Sydney's direction and grinned behind Sark's head, pointing to him and then fanning her face. Sydney pretended not to see her friends antics, her eyes locked on Sark's face. 

"You have no idea how pleased I am to hear that Francie, I've been meaning to play with Sydney's naughty side for quite some time." 

Sydney glared at him while Francie leaned over the cabinet and asked, "How did you know my name?" 

Sydney suddenly stiffened, flicking an alarmed glance at Sark. 

"Sydney mentioned you; she talks about you all the time." He said smoothly, knowing Sydney would understand the lie. She had started to pace which was amusing him greatly. 

"I'm sorry, what's your name?" Francie tilted her head. 

Sark sent Sydney a faux-insulted glance, "I thought I'd at least rate a mention." 

"I have more important things to talk about like grass and swiss cheese and who Ben Affleck is dating." 

Francie was still waiting for a response and Sydney grinned. "Go ahead, tell her your name. First name if you please, we're never formal here unlike you up tight Brits." 

Francie frowned at Sydney, not understanding her animosity. 

"David." He said smoothly, not taking his eyes from Sydney's face. Her eyes flashed the word at him and he took it with ease: liar, such a liar. 

"It's nice to meet you, David," Francie stepped away from the bench and pretended to swoon against the fridge while Sydney glared at her and took a seat on the stool beside Sark. When Francie moved to make her own cup of coffee, Sydney leant close to him and viciously grabbed his lapels dragging him toward her. 

She hissed into his ear, "what the hell do you think you're doing?" 

"I'm plotting the violent deaths of your friends. Speaking of that, where is Will Tippin?" He asked lightly. She tightened her grip on his jacket violently which inadvertently pulled him toward her, his lips bumped against her neck but she didn't pay it any mind. 

"If you're trying to prove I'll murder someone you're going about it perfectly and you're my first victim." 

"I find that hard to believe." He husked into her neck. 

"Do you want one, Sydney?" 

Sydney jerked her head to the side, "No, thankyou." She smiled widely not noticing her friends amused grin at how close Sydney was holding David. 

"Get out of here now," Sydney continued in a low hiss, "Will is coming over to pick Francie up and if he sees you he'll recognise you." 

"I'm glad that I'm memorable." 

"_David_, I'm begging you. Is that what you played this little game for?" She hissed in a lower tone. Sark leant close enough so that his nose nudged hers. She withdrew slightly as he breathed. 

"In all honesty it was my intention to make you beg but not for this reason." 

She couldn't miss his insinuation and sure enough she flushed. He couldn't tell whether it was embarrassment or anger. 

Francie returned with a grin. 

"So David, how long have you known Sydney?" 

"About a year now though I feel like I've known her forever. I'm familiar with her mother's work you see." 

Sydney glared at him as Francie gave a sympathetic, understanding grin. 

"You must have been young." 

"Too young to know her well I'm afraid but some people live on long after they die." He said softly, eyes on Sydney's angry glower. 

"That's sweet." Francie smiled softly at him and raised her mug to her lips—a knock sounded at the door and Sydney sat up spine-jarringly straight while Sark relaxed in his stool. "Will, why are you knocking?" Francie laughed walking toward the door. 

"Why is the door locked?" He replied through the wood. 

"Oh I'm sorry I didn't realise I locked—" 

Sark didn't hear the rest because Sydney was hissing she wouldn't put Will through this and dragging him through the house by his lapels, she shoved him into a dark room and locked the door behind them. 

"Don't make a sound." 

"They're going to come in here; it's extremely rude to leave a guest without receiving them. I sure would like a proper introduction to your friend." He said with sardonic amusement and Sydney punched him across the face. 

"Bastard." 

"Do that again and I'll walk out there." 

"Only if you get past me." 

"You should know better than to challenge me." He stepped into her space, he could feel her heat – _rage, hot, desire, passion, ire, yearn_ – against his chest, clogging up the air between them. His breathing was already unsteady like he'd already struck her back, already knocked her feet out from under her, already stolen her breath (in whichever fashion). 

"Stop rising to the bait, Sark because you'll just get caught. You know that I'm better than you, I'll beat you and you'll be humiliated. Again." She gritted with relish through her teeth. 

"You want me to win." 

"Shut—" 

He reached out and grabbed her, twining his fist into her hair and holding her there roughly. "You fight me, kick me and hate me but I know that you want me to win. It would give you an excuse." 

"To what?" She hissed scathingly. 

There was a knock at the door. "Sydney, are you coming? David can come along if you like." 

They were breathing in each other's air, hot quick puffs and he hadn't released her. She was waiting for his answer. 

"To what?" She asked again. Sark didn't recognise her voice, it was hesitant and shaky and he could feel her quivering in the dark. His fingers squeezed the nape of her neck. 

"To give in." He whispered, the sweetness of his accent lulling her in the dark. She couldn't see his face, maybe it wasn't her enemy, maybe he was a warm body that wanted her just as much as she wanted him. 

She didn't move and neither did he but he could hear her breathing escalating and he could feel her pulse in the tips of his fingers. 

"S-ark . . . we—" 

"We've decided to stay in, Francie. Thankyou for your kind offer, it was appreciated." Sark spoke crisply, his silver blue eyes trying to search for Sydney's in the darkness. But he was glad there was no light. He had her and he knew it. He could hear Francie giggling through the door, could hear the familiar rasp of Will Tippin's voice asking why he'd never heard of David. Sydney was so quiet and so still. Sark brought his other hand up to the other side of her neck and she flinched like a skittish foal. 

"I don't want this." She said, slightly firmer than he'd expected but no more believable than her negating head shakes that caused his fingers to rub and caress her skin. Sark moved forward and took her lips with his. It was a light kiss, enticing but mostly platonic, she stiffened in his grasp bringing her own hands up to clutch tightly at his wrists. They both knew that if she really wanted him to let her go he would have been flat on his back with broken ribs by now. 

"Stay here with me or I'll accompany you out with your friends." 

"As soon as they're gone you're fair game." She hissed. 

"Yes." His lips brushed dryly against her nose, cheeks and jaw. "_Your_ fair game." 

"You're putting your life at risk." Her hands moved from his wrist, nervously, searchingly, up and down his arms until she wrapped her fingers in his hair roughly. He gasped out pulling her head back to mouth silent pleas into her neck. Her nails scratched along his scalp. 

"Or my heart at least." He said into her throat. 

"Don't bullshit me." She slapped his face, but not hard. He used the violence as an excuse for urgency. 

His lips crashed into hers, hands pulling at her hair and angling her mouth for a deeper penetration. She made a noise but he couldn't tell if it was a scream or a moan and he didn't particularly care if it was pain or lust behind either sound. She was moist and hot and all woman and she smelled deliciously spicy as he pressed into her. His tongue was not at risk this time, she opened her mouth willingly and plundered his lips as much as he attempted to assume control of hers. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders propelling her firmly against his chest. The press of the muscles in her arms and legs against his own – equally violent, equally fervent – was delicious. She whimpered out a sound as he released her lips. They followed each others movements – search and retreat – like two cobras hypnotised by a distant sound. Finally she growled and nipped his chin. His hands firmly gripped her face in the darkness pulling her parallel to his victorious grin. In the darkness she couldn't see it. 

She breathed out harshly twice before she sort him out in the dark. Her hands and nails scraped his cheeks bringing their mouths into brushing, teasing contact as his hands ran firmly down her spine to grasp her buttocks. A harsh groan escaped through her lips, groin to groin he pressed firm and slow against her. 

"This was inevitable you know, we were meant to do this." 

"Shut up." She hissed and moved her mouth to his neck ignoring his sincerity and the hidden danger he was alluding to. Everything had led them here and yes they were destined to crash together but the reason wasn't so pure as love. He didn't know the reason but he understood it to be a black thing. As delicious and tempting as his lust for power and twice as explosive. 

Her hands crept up to his shoulders, lips biting and sucking at the pulse in his neck. He swallowed, swept by heat and weakness and glorious power. He gasped out when she shoved him and collapsed backwards. His hands went out to break his fall but the bed was there first. She charged him and pinned him down firmly (not that he was going anywhere). She was straddling his thighs, continuing her trail of lip gloss down his neck. Her lips devoured his skin, biting and sucking: desperate to hold and own and destroy. He stroked her thighs to her waist, her backside, petting her into a gentle friction that shot darts of pleasure to his groin. 

She laughed throatily, pulling up to land a firm wet kiss on his lips. The next thing he heard was a fierce ripping and he stiffened. She was grinning down on him, the two sides of his shirt spread open in her hands and buttons were littered across his heaving, naked chest. 

"I took a substantial pay cut when I defected to Sloane's employ, I hope you realise you're paying to have my shirt mended." 

She met his eyes – now adjusted to the darkness – and lowered her tongue deliberately to the valley between his pecs. A noise built up in his throat that he refused to release, molten eyes watched her tongue's slow journey across his skin. When she reached his adam's apple she sucked on it for a moment causing the guttural moan to break free and speak desire into the air around them. 

"Bill me." She whispered across his chin. 

Sark's hands shot out to her waist and he spun her in one fluent movement beneath him. His mouth found hers and he quickly took dominance and she groaned out in pleasure when he showed her no mercy. Adjusting his hips to the valley of her thighs he pressed his erection firmly into her moist centre and she bucked up against him instantly. Sark's lips pulled back from hers and his hands moved gently to push her hair out of her face. 

"I'm sure we can settle the debt some other way." 

That close to her mouth he could feel her lips move into an answering smile, she nodded her head brushing those plumes off flesh innocently against his own mouth. He opened his lips and licked the sweat off hers, turning the innocent into the sinful as they melted into each other again.

* * *

She was still breathing heavily, flushed in both surprise and ecstasy when Sark started to talk. He knew this would happen – had planned it this way, he wanted her to underestimate him. He wanted her to believe whatever illusion about a love-sick assassin that she had built up in her mind to allow her to indulge in their mutual lust. 

He spoke with apparent thoughtlessness, playing with her hair, basking in orgasmic bliss and letting secrets go. He told her that he almost wished he was the Alliance member up in the sky if it meant she could be his partner. 

"What do you mean?" She asked, confused. 

He turned a curl of her hair around his finger. 

"You know, that useless weight-challenged fool who guards server forty-seven." 

"There are only forty-six servers." 

"Oh, well perhaps I misheard. They say he gets prostitutes to keep him company and he just flies around the world in a literally elevated, decadent bliss." 

"Are you calling me a prostitute?" She tried to joke but he could already feel the alert stiffness of her limbs. He rolled on top of her, pinning her so that he could steal one more kiss before he sealed his betrayal. 

"I'm saying I wouldn't need a prostitute were I in his position and you accompanied me." 

"Stop it, Sark. You know this is all that this is." 

He frowned at her terrible sentence structure and nuzzled her throat and cheek. Her hands trembled as they ran through his hair. 

"It's over." 

Yes it was, he'd said the words that would bring the house of cards crashing down. He'd done what Sloane had told him to and what she thought was her salvation would lead her toward a destiny she'd never wanted. 

Sark kissed across the naked slopes and valleys of her chest, his lips tugged and nipped at her peaking nipples and he closed his eyes against her gasp. 

Sex, Money and God. 

She tasted like two of them and got him closer to the other. 

"I had best leave before Will Tippin returns with your friend." He spoke the words in breathy pants against her skin. Flesh once supple, stiffened beneath him and he rolled away. 

_It's over._

Now for the bloody end, the betrayal, the repercussions of sin . . . he saw Eden burning as he zipped up his pants

* * *

Sark looked into the rearview mirror and met her burning brown eyes. They were knowing and patient and ready . . . 

He stopped the ignition pulled out his gun. A pivot in the chair, two shots and they were dead. Irina had actually flinched but he didn't smile, pleased as he was to have frightened her. 

"Get out of the car please." 

Detached, unemotional: this was their reunion. Mother and son if that's what he'd pretended she was to him. 

He escorted Irina Derevko to Sloane and accompanied them into the van. Her eyes watched him cautiously. She said nothing though he could see her eyes turn darker the longer the journey went. The satisfaction must be seared into his skin. I fucked her and I fucked you. _Did you feel it in your cell?_

In the aeroplane she asked him. "I understand you worked with Arvin at SD-6 during the final stages of Phase One?" She spoke calmly. 

"Yes. As planned." He flicked a page in his book, having no idea what he's just read. 

"You worked alongside, Sydney." 

"Yes. I am quite aware that you saw her frequently during your incarceration so I'm sure I have little to add to your own reflections." 

He could feel her eyes burning him and gloried in his memories a little more. That was his act of defiance and perhaps it would lead to his death, but he had tasted her and there was nothing Irina Derevko could do to remove the tang on his tongue. 

"How was she?" 

He'd heard the question before and knew that this time she was not enquiring about the health of Sydney Bristow. Sark closed his book slowly and met her dark gaze. "Exquisite." 

"You risked your life to spite me." She raised an eyebrow, appearing amused though he knew she was not. 

"I did my job." He looked out the window. "I exploited her weakness." 

"Which was?" 

"Like mother, like daughter." 

"Meaning?" 

"She chose to believe she possessed power over me, that I through my weakness for her would be easily manipulated into revealing certain information about Arvin Sloane. I exploited her arrogance and gave her what she wanted. What we needed her to hear. Are you proud?" He drawled with a dark glower. 

Irina met his gaze without a flinch, "Yes." She said but she didn't look pleased.

* * *

He should have expected it really. One moment he was meeting with an ally and the next moment his face was being smashed into a table by the one and only Michael Vaughn. 

He could feel her presence, her heat in the gun held to his head. 

"My loyalties are flexible." The words slipped out like honey, of course he'd assist them. 

Irina's eyes flashed in his memory, the last time he had seen them. Dark with promises. It should have been a warning, there was no promise to him she hadn't broken. Of course it would end this way, Irina feeding him to her daughter like a preying mantis. 

They took him away and interrogated him, asking about Sloane and not caring that Irina Derevko was still at large, they never seemed to care about that. Just Sloane. 

She interrogated him alone once and neither had flinched away from the searching stare that asked more than the questions which passed over her lips. "Do you know the whereabouts of Arvin Sloane?" "Do you know where the missing Rambaldi artefacts are?" 

Her eyes asked one question, _You knew what would happen when you told me about server-47 didn't you?_

"Yes." 

"What question were you referring to?" 

"All of them." 

Their eyes were still holding though he could tell she wanted to look away. 

"Well?" 

He threw his head back, "I've told you where Sloane is, it is not my fault you failed to apprehend him. Considering that failure I can only assume that the Rambaldi artefacts are still in his possession." 

He didn't elaborate on the silent answer to her last question. 

He watched her stand, hard eyes following the lines of her breasts pressed up beneath her blouse, down her hips to the apex of her thighs. He could see every delicate crease on her flesh through the sheer material she wore and wondered at her cruelty in putting herself on display for him. Irina's daughter indeed. She said something but he wasn't listening. His eyes had found her gun, tucked into her slacks. 

"Do you understand?" 

"Yes." He said though he didn't remember the question. 

He understood one thing. Something had thrilled through him at the sight of her gun. He simply knew he'd hold a gun again. He was born to be at the end of the barrel and he knew, like he'd never known anything before that a woman with flashing brown eyes would one day soon be at the other end. He saw the paint on the wall and the smear of red; he smelled sex in the air and cool, cool death. 

"What are you smirking about?" She snapped, irritated. 

"I'm not sure who I should be fantasising about. You or your mother." 

"I'd rather stay out of your sick fantasies." She stormed from the room, gesturing to the guards that the prisoner was ready. 

He was. His trigger finger clenched and freedom didn't seem so far away. 

--**END**. 


End file.
